


lay over

by powderblew



Series: clear skies and warm nostalgia [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Feel-good, Female Reader, Fluff, Late night shenanigans, Oikawa is struggling with communication, Slice of Life, enjoy 2 pov from a 3 pov perspective, maybe? - Freeform, never writing 2 pov, the reader is amused but still puts him around the bend, we love growing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powderblew/pseuds/powderblew
Summary: Unspoken words and ramen. —Oikawa/Reader
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Series: clear skies and warm nostalgia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192649
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	lay over

Somedays she regrets taking a part-time job. Sure, the money is nice, extra pocket change never hurt anyone, but sometimes she gets so bored, and reading everything in sight gets tiring after a bit—that part’s a lie. Reading _never_ gets boring, but it gets boring when she sits in the same location time after time, reading underneath the fluorescent lights of _Mina’s_ convenience store and waiting for ten pm.

She turns the page of her math textbook; ugh.

She prefers the evening shift, the one where she closes, mostly because it’s never really busy and if there are people it’s usually her own peers. The owner picked this location solely because it’s close to the schools, which means more traffic and customers. However, on school nights, the flow of traffic is relative and after its eight—there are only a few stragglers every now and then.

The bell rings against the doorframe just ten minutes before nine pm, she flickers her eyes upwards to glance at the newcomer.

Imagine her surprise when she sees her familiar school uniform.

She grits her teeth; maybe if she ignores them they will _go away._

She doesn’t _hate_ her classmates – she’s indifferent at most – but she rather not deal with them because when she _does_ go to school, the questions will follow, the attention and even more unwanted speaking.

Then, there’s a plastic pack of ramen in front of her, two riceballs, and a watermelon juice.

She blinks and looks up to see glittering sienna-colored eyes.

_He’s pretty._

“Is that all?” she hopes she doesn’t sound strangled, feigning nonchalance by putting her textbook to the side and scanning the items fairly quickly.

“Yeah,” he sounds tired, but curious nonetheless—his eyes float over to her school bag on the corner the words _Aoba Johsai_ written on one of her books.

That’s when she notices his volleyball uniform—she could slap herself.

She must be really tired not to have noticed that _the_ Oikawa Tooru is standing in front of her.

“Six hundred yen,” she says blankly and taps the machine in front of her, “Do you want a bag?”

“No,” he says after a moment then he tilts his head, “When do you close?”

She stares at him and furrows her brows, “In an hour.”

Oikawa nods and gives a half-smile, “Guess I’ll stay here.”

She stares at him again; right.

“Alright,” she says warily and charges his card.

.

Maybe it’s her.

Maybe it’s the way she looks or the way she talks because she doesn’t fawn over Oikawa or look at him with anything but respect and polite disregard that he doesn’t pull his usual flirtations—charms with her. She shouldn’t be offended, but the distaste wraps around the back of her throat like something unreal.

When she goes to school, with her bag and silent disregard for anything idiotic—like gossip, for example, she notices that Oikawa is suddenly in her line of vision. She didn’t notice at first, because she never had really _looked_ at him, but her science class is in the building right across from the gym, so they cross paths ever so often.

She doesn’t stop to look at him, but he does.

She feels it.

.

“Why do you never take the shortcut in front of the Arts Department?” Oikawa suddenly asks her when she’s scanning another pack of ramen – spicy shrimp – and his kiwi water, “It’s quicker to get to the labs that way.”

So they _are_ going to talk about it; the fact that they go to the same school.

There’s nothing to deny, of course, they both go to the same school, they’ve seen each other, walked past each other, their school name decorated on at least one personal item and it’s just far less stressful than _pretending._

“I like to watch the cherry blossoms in front of the court,” she replies dryly, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips, “It’s a much better view than using a dark corridor.”

“Much more pleasing to the eye,” Oikawa admits with a tiny grin, “You don’t come to the gym?”

“Other than classes, there’s no real reason not to,” she answers and hands him a pair of chopsticks from the back counter.

He struggles to say something, to find the words to say what he _really_ wants to say, but he falls short, “What about games?”

“I don’t like sports,” she shuts him down there because this conversation is entirely too _strange._ Sure, it’s been a few weeks since he’s been coming to the store, buying ramen and some odd fruity drink—giving random words, sentences every now and then, however, it’s not like they really _talk._

“Don’t you want to support our school?” he quirks a brow and his confidence seems to increase with every moment that passes.

“I do,” she unscrews the cap of her water bottle, “It’s just I don’t pay attention. It’s not really fair to the players, is it? To be present but not really acknowledging their skills?”

Oikawa stares at her for a moment and then rocks back on his heels. He agrees and smiles shyly, “I guess not. I thought maybe you would like to attend a game or two. I appreciate that you leave my favorite box of ramen on the front row of the shelf every night, so I don’t have to look through it.”

She flushes; he’s more observant than she thought.

It’s just that, he always looks so _drained_ when he comes in. She doesn’t know how long practice lasts, but he looks like he might fall apart if she so much as pokes him. She tries to shrug it off, “It’s nothing. You just look tired; I thought you…you know—that I make it easier for you to get what you need.”

She almost cringes at how _awkward_ she sounds. She wants to be neutral. He’s the school’s star volleyball player, has a fan club, and works himself to the brink of exhaustion. It’s only _polite_ and lots of people do it for—for regulars.

It’s nothing _special._

But Oikawa’s eyes widen at her statement, she finds herself counting the different shades of topaz in his iris, the heat in her face burns even more and as much as she wants to brazen it out—she _can’t._

“That’s,” Oikawa begins abruptly, a little roughly, and scratches the back of his neck, “That’s really thoughtful of you, thank you.”

She shrugs, but then she sees it.

There’s a reason why Oikawa doesn’t treat her like one of his fangirls because she treats him with _respect_ —almost as if he’s like a _person._ It sounds bitter, maybe in her own head, but she likes it this way. She likes his honesty, she likes that he can be comfortable around her even when he wants to fall apart and she wouldn’t judge him for it.

He knows that too, that’s why—that’s why he doesn’t stop visiting her.

.

He doesn’t stop coming to the store, come rain, snow, or sleet, because she’s always there, with a box of ramen and her strange-flavored drinks.

The next time Oikawa visits her, she points him to the new rack of milkbread and the smile doesn’t leave his face—

—not even when he squeezes her hand in thanks and walks her home.

His hand doesn’t leave hers.


End file.
